


Jealousy

by RavenGrey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Breathplay, Jealousy, M/M, Public Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenGrey/pseuds/RavenGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock drags John to a well known gay bar on a case. John isn't all that chuffed about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealousy

**Author's Note:**

> There is no plot to this. There should be, but there isn't. Oops.

              John is uncomfortable. What he is feeling currently is beyond uncomfortable and has progressed into seriously fucking awkward. Lights, bright and flashing, assault his eyes from every conceivable angle, sweaty, scantily clad bodies are pressed and packed in tight as they flail and writhe in time with the god awful, fast paced music that beats throughout the dimly lit club like a pulse. In Sherlock’s defenses, this actually was for a case. John is miserable. Sitting rather awkwardly at the table they’d managed to commandeer, he shifts in his too tight leather trousers and pulls at the equally tight mesh shirt that clings to the line of his back and shoulders. Sherlock had flitted off to mingle, his own leather clad legs disappearing in the mass of wriggling bodies to acquire them drinks. A simple black corset, the lacings a deep crimson, was, apparently, a necessary part of Sherlock’s disguise, as were the lethal looking stilettos that boasted the same deep color of red as his corset strings.

               It shouldn't be allowed for one man to look that damn good, but Sherlock does, and he does it with minimal effort. Sherlock moves with an easy grace through the undulating crowd, making his way to the bar with a surprising quickness. He places their order and then turns to engage the man beside him in conversation. From where he's sitting he watches Sherlock lips curl upwards as he speaks with the man, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. John knows it's for the case, the bloody, case, but that doesn't keep his hands from clenching against the table.

               John openly admits to being jealous. Jealous of the men who watch Sherlock go with hungry eyes, jealous of the bodies that press in from every angle, jealous of every Mo and Larry that try to stop Sherlock in an attempt to flirt. Such attempts make his blood boil and the urge to snatch Sherlock up and drag his lovely arse out of the damned place grow. He wants to go home and he wants to have been there about 20 minutes ago. He crosses one leg over the other, the combat boots Sherlock had chosen for him laced tight and waited for him to return.

               Sherlock looks downright delicious, the tightly laced corset clinging to the swell of his hips, the dips of his ribcage. John simultaneously loves and hates the damn thing all at once. Loves it because, holy damn does he look good and hates it because  _holy damn_  does he look good. Sherlock appears, drinks in hand, and slides effortlessly into the booth, his skin having gathered a light sheen of sweat, which collects in the shallow grooves of his collarbones. John swallows hard, eyes tracing the path of a single bead of sweat as it follows the curve of Sherlock’s neck.

               Sherlock is speaking, his tone low and urgent, but John doesn’t hear him, his attention wholly on slight bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. John’s eyes narrow and he sweeps a hostile look over the crowd, jealousy a living, breathing thing in his chest. How  _dare_  they. The thought is bitter and sharp and Sherlock has stopped speaking, has stopped moving, his eyes locked on John, his pupils huge and black. His breath catches and John watches as Sherlock’s pulse flutters, his fingers digging into the wood of the table where they rest. “Is there a problem, John?” Sherlock’s tone is purposefully light, mocking and teasing all in one.

               John knows what he’s doing, knows Sherlock intends to kill two birds with one stone, and decides not to disappoint. His lips press against Sherlock’s with crushing strength, his fingers rising to tease at the simple leather collar Sherlock wears, his teeth catching Sherlock’s bottom lip hard enough to draw a gasp from Sherlock. Sherlock gasps, head titling back as fingers alight on his throat, digging in just enough. His left hand rises to tangle in John’s tags, which he had insisted John wear for just this purpose. He moans into the open heat of John’s mouth, saliva making the kiss slick and biting. Every nerve burns and he scours his nails down John’s chest, angry welts raising in their wake.

               A deep, needy groan leaves John and he slips his fingers under the smooth leather of the collar, allowing Sherlock just enough room to suck in small, gasping breaths. “Bathroom. Now.” He growls, not a question, a command that he damn well expects to be obeyed. Sherlock gives a considering look from under lowered lids, his lips full and pouting. With a feline grace he slips from the booth, the pull of John’s fingers before he releases his hold on the thin material round his throats causes his trousers to tighten further, his cock hardening as he makes his way to the bathroom, hips rolling as he does so. He can feel John’s on him as he moves, waiting, watching, and Sherlock can’t help the shudder that racks his spine, the feeling of being prey ever present. He moves through the bodies on the dance floor with an easy grace, coming out at opposite relatively unscathed and still just as randy as he had been before. He entered the bathroom and sent the amorous couples that littered the place packing before John had reached the glitter soaked room.

               John downs the fruity, too sweet drink Sherlock had brought him in one gulp and follows after Sherlock at a much slower pace, his steps measured and deadly. He watches as Sherlock disappears into the men’s room, sending it’s previous occupants scampering, and makes his way lazily across the crowded dance floor. His movements are lithe and dangerous, despite all appearances, and he makes his way quickly towards the seedy looking loo. He rolls his shoulders before entering, his muscles relaxing, and slips easily inside, the sight of Sherlock leaning against the sink driving the breath his lungs.

               Sherlock smirks, the dangerous tilt of his lips matching the heat that burns in his eyes. John’s eyes rove over Sherlock, taking in every cutting inch of him as he takes a purposeful step forwards. Sherlock remains where he had first been when John had entered, perfectly at ease. John gives a quite growl and pins Sherlock by his hips, the dig of a heel into the back of his thigh dimly noted as Sherlock thrusts his knee in between John’s. The sudden friction rips a groan from John’s throat and he retaliates by giving Sherlock’s cock a hard squeeze through his pants. Sherlock’s back arches, John’s free hand curving behind Sherlock’s back as he yanks him up, his arse on the sinks edge as he digs his nails into the clothed hollow of Sherlock’s back.

               A gasped moan is the only reply he receives and John grinds his hips forward, lifting Sherlock’s other leg up and placing it over his hip. Taking Sherlock’s entire weight John moves them just enough away from the sink to slam Sherlock’s back against the wall, pinning him with the weight of body as his fingers drag mercilessly over the line of Sherlock’s arousal. Sherlock’s fall open, slack with pleasure, and John wastes no time in claiming them again, teeth and tongue unforgiving. John quickly undoes the fastenings of Sherlock’s pants the leather or them giving him little to no room. Shoving, his hand down Sherlock’s pants, he gives the head of his cock a hard squeeze despite the limited space, his own hardness pressed against Sherlock’s inner thigh. Hands claw frantically at his back and John’s lips move down, coming to rest over Sherlock’s pounding pulse. He delivers a hard bite, accompanied by a slow, unforgiving stroke of his hand. Sherlock retaliates by dragging his nails over a pert nipple, his hand coming to rest against the top of John’s trousers, his hand sliding over the line of John’s cock. John’s hips grind against Sherlock’s hand, seeking friction, only to be severely disappointed when Sherlock redraws his hand. Groaning in frustration, John sets Sherlock down briefly enough to jerk his pants down roughly over his hips, his straining erection exposed to the heated air. Pre-come wets the tip of him, his gorgeous cock flushed and needy. His own pants follow shortly, after a flurry of hands, his and Sherlock’s, had undone the strings and jerked them down round his hips. His own cock exposed, not quite as magnificent as Sherlock’s, although Sherlock would most certainly disagree, John has them both in his hand, nails dragging over the vein on the underside of Sherlock’s shaft, pre-come slicking his hand as he pumps them both in the circle of his hand.

               Sherlock’s hands claw and dig into the muscle of John’s broad back, the fish net tank top offering no protection from Sherlock’s passion. The painful drag of nails only serves to sharpen his pleasure, his breaths coming in ragged pants as he all but crushes Sherlock’s body with his. Sherlock can do little more than cling to John as he’s fisted in the tight circle of John’s hand, the concrete blocks wonderfully rough against his back. John’s teeth sink into the tense muscles of Sherlock’s throat, bruising in the most delicious of ways and Sherlock cums spectacularly, his entire body arching and twisting as he spills himself over John’s hand, cum staining the see through material of John’s shirt as he thick spurts stain up to John’s chest. A few rough thrusts and Sherlock coming undone in his hand are enough to push John right over the edge, in the best of ways and he cums with a ragged growl, his lips crushing Sherlock’s, their ragged breaths, or lack thereof, mingling and meshing. His mouth is brutal and unforgiving against Sherlock’s, his goal to steal the very breath from his lungs. And he does. John’s kiss can barely be considered that, all fire and teeth. They’re both shuddering, shaking, clinging to one another as the world burns. John’s fingers cling with bruising strength and so do Sherlock’s. They slide to the filthy floor in a tangled, sated mess, and John, feeling vindictive, keeps his hand wrapped tightly round Sherlock, the hoarse whimper he drags from Sherlock’s throat stirring that dangerous need that had settled inside from the second he’d laid eyes on Sherlock when they’d set out for the night.

               Grinning wickedly, his eyes half-lidded, John draws a second orgasm from Sherlock, holding him even more tightly when he tries to shy away from John’s touch on his over sensitive skin. The movement of his hand are slow and leisurely and when he’s done Sherlock is an incoherent mess, his breaths coming in sobs as he shakes and shudders apart in John’s arms.   


End file.
